Post Mortem Punk
by I am a Hoot
Summary: Forty years in the future, a young boy is imprisoned for having psychic powers. This boy has no name, no friends, and almost certainly no future.


Darkness can be many things.

The light is harsh, most of the time. The darkness is easier to get used to; he found that out in no time. Time? Oh, right. That was in abundance for a prisoner.

For him, the darkness was a manifestation of his mind; the cell was just as dark. Rather vague ("Total nutcase if you ask me!"). But a nutcase? Not in this particular building/prison/edifice/hell-hole. But, he was told, it was the place to be if you were a…..alright, yes, a nutcase. Yet, there was no denying he was different than the rapists, cyber terrorists, and good god knows what else. That was why he was separated from them all, the special one who was more special than the rest. Treated in a special way, too. The oblivion of the cell, the nothingness of it. The testing and the experiments, the straightjacket. Oh, and the little black chip on the back of his neck that "Kept things in check". All for safety. His safety? Not likely.

Not that the chip was needed now, though. He was exactly the way they wanted him: sound as a pound. Just as quiet as the darkness around him. You would never know he sat there, cross-legged, still as a statue. You would never see his long, raven hair that fell over his pine-green eyes. You would never guess that he was no more than seventeen, five foot ten, one hundred thirteen pounds, and had an I.Q. Of over two hundred. And his name? Ah, you would never guess that either. Not the number that all prisoners in the special place went by, but his real, genuine name. Strange, of the few things that he remembered about his childhood, you would think he'd remembered his given name. However, he ultimately realized he never had one to begin with. Not for the seven years that he'd had before the prison, and certainly not the ten since then.

It didn't matter now. A name was just so useless in this place.

The door of the cell slid open automatically, creating a dazzling square vortex of light that pierced the darkness of the cell, but not the darkness of his mind. He was staring at the floor to begin with.

"Prisoner 527, stand," a voice came. It drifted from the ceiling and was far off, completely devoid of emotion. "Walk down the hall and into the farthest door on the right."

Ah, the number. No, 527 would have been a poor excuse of a name, but it was a means of identification. The number had been a part of him for a long time. Hearing it grinded his mind into motion, so he awkwardly pushed himself up using his legs and shuffled down the hallway. His posture was that of a slight hunch, the belts of his straightjacket softly jingling as he made the trip down the hallway, the hallway that had exactly twenty handle-less doors that only slid open if they felt like it. The harsh lights overhead made the insomnia-induced lines around his eyes deepen, but otherwise from being abnormally white, his face was normal and still young. Aside from the straightjacket, he wore dark, tight fit jeans that were battered with holes, standard issue, apparently. There were no shoes on his feet, so the steel floor was like ice, every part of the building was kept at a bitterly cold temperature, probably to induce calmness or something. But the cold had gradually become a part of him overtime. Just like the darkness.

527 approached the door, and it hissed open, revealing a room that he detested (Not quite hated) the most in his little world. It was something that he had never gotten used to: a room that was bathed in blinding light, a room that seemed to have no limits to its space. There were walls and a ceiling, but they were lost in the dazzling light. It was a room designed for check-ups and interrogation, and it would be much easier to break a prisoner if he was being blinded in the process. 527 lowered his gaze to meet the floor (Which was white).

"Stop," the voice commanded in little more than monotone. 527 knew that, somewhere in the light, there was a camera that watched his every step, twitch, and flutter of hair, and a sound system that would listen to his very thoughts if let be. He also knew these things were linked to an artificial intelligence that issued orders, asked questions, and conducted tests. The A.I. Existed, so stated by the A.I. itself, to function as a state-of-the-art prisoner control system. ("You are the first to receive this honor.") And it was all 527 had in the way of company.

"Hey, Bob," greeted 527. No, this wasn't the A.I.'s actual name, but someone might as well be given one in this place. Quite literally, 527 was being a smart-ass.

"Prisoner 527 today is December 17th, 2049. You have just recently passed your seventeenth birthday, correct?"

527 didn't answer, but gave the slightest of a nod.

The A.I. accepted this, and continued. "You have been in confinement since the 5th of November, 2039."(The A.I. had impeccable observation skills) "Since then, you have proven the suspicions that you are mentally unstable and have telekinetic and psychokinetic abilities on the Macro scale you are able to consciously influence not only the atoms and particles of things around you, but whole objects as well."

Ah, yes. The very thing that made him special. The thing that made him so very interesting. Not so much a nutcase now, is he?

"And based on your abilities," the A.I. continued, "you have had multiple chances to escape. Yet, you have not."

Escape? Escape to where? He didn't even know where he was escaping _from_. Whether he was underground, in the sky, he had never been told. But the chip on the back of his neck gave him the greatest hindrance. He could fry it, but it was directly connected to his spinal cord, so there was no telling what would happen if he tried to sever his strings. Even if destroyed, and he himself unharmed, it would activate a beacon that would surely be used to track him.

No, escape was pretty much useless. Just like a name.

"In these ten years," the A.I. Trundled on, "the results of seven hundred and forty two tests have shown that the handle you possess on your abilities has gradually increased, but it's still uncontrollable when your emotions go unchecked. There are times when you go under recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis, in which you unconsciously, suddenly move objects around you. The abilities you possess are limited to object movement, deformation, and magnetism control. Smaller, lighter objects are understandably easier to control, such as boxes, small furniture, knives--"

"Bob, you know I realize this more than anyone," 527 whispered. The times he had been told this bordered on countless, and he knew full well the range of things he could use… Including **KNIVES****.**

"My name is not Bob. I am AIPCS-7E44Y-01. In any case, your mental instability hinders full control of the things you manipulate. Your sensory waves are very powerful to the point of being dangerous when your emotions go rampant."

"And the chip is latched onto my neck to prevent that," 527 said quietly as he continued to stare at the dazzlingly white floor. 0ften he wondered if the 'A' in A.I. Didn't stand for 'ass-faced'. "But it can only limit a percent of my emotions at any given time."

"More importantly," the A.I. said, the words tumbling from the speakers in a slow torrent of monotone, "the chip can limit not only your emotions, but yo---"

"But also my ability, which helps in the goal of making me submit. And for the past three months, you have told me this on an average twenty times. Can you get to your point? I have a headache, and this room irks me."

"Our tests have shown that even though you possess psychokinetic abilities, your brain anatomy shows no deviation from a regular brain, while your powers are not in use," the A.I. Said with increased speed, "so showing how your brain arranges itself when using your extra senses would be most profitable. Still, this cannot happen if you do not comply with us."

527 had never been cooperative. In ten years, not once had they been able to monitor his brain activity while he "did what he did". His cell was empty; nothing to levitate, compact, or (the best one) explode. The food that was hastily dumped onto the ground from a ceiling compartment dissolved after one minute, if not eaten. Not that he cared; he was rarely hungry for watered mush. From time to time, they would try to drug the food with a powerful mood-altering tonic. It was virtually undetectable, but it was obvious they would try such a thing. 527 simply didn't eat it, and at one point had threatened to starve himself to death.

The operating rooms were completely autonomous and machine-controlled. No humans whatsoever. And, although 527 hated to admit it, it was the company of the A.I. that prevented him from talking to himself all the time; no human contact for ten years can do a person in quicker than they think. He let the machines do their job, probing his mind from top to bottom, scanning brain activity, but not once did he think a single thought when they did this. They tried all sorts of things to get him to snap out of it. The A.I. threatened to hurt him, or the machines would whirl menacingly. But, he realized within a few days of being captured, no matter how many times he would refuse their methods, they couldn't, and wouldn't, harm him. Not as long as it was knowledge that they were seeking.

"The question is posed once more," the A.I. Said. "Will you please cooperate with us in our research and testi--"

"No," 527 said plainly. Squinting his eyes, he looked up from the floor. "I will not be used. Thank you anyway for saying please."

527 once again detected the pause as the A.I. processed this response; the stupid machine seemed to be programmed for the intended reply of "Yes".

The A.I. Spoke after a three second pause. "Very well. Hold your position while I run a diagnostic on your bodily condition."

527 faintly heard a whining noise as a scanner compiled data about his pulse, blood pressure, and temperature.

After a half a minute, the A.I. spoke again, "Satisfactory results. Showing no abnormalities."(Yeah, right) "Return to your cell."

527 turned and shuffled out of the room and back down the hallway. He went through the cell doorway and was swallowed up by darkness as the reinforced door snapped shut and electronically locked itself.

"You are to remain in your cell until a determined cycle has been established. You will be given new orders at that time."

But 527 barely heard the monotonous voice; he was back to the darkness once more.

Here's a little tidbit of obvious information: 527 was one smart cookie. That being said, however, there was one small flaw in his psychic disposition. An I.Q. of over 200 matters little if a person is imprisoned for ten years. It is the interactions in life that develop a person's reasoning and thinking process, among other things. However, in 527's case, these things were virtually non-existent. For him, the development of his brain was significantly hindered from seven years old onward, giving him a rather childish outlook on his surroundings and position. Still, as said before, he was not a nut-case, and had an excellent command of vocabulary for someone of his standing. Though he sometimes doubted it, 527 was very much sane. Or, as much as a psychic young man whom was taken from a normal world and put in prison for ten years could be.

The most accurate description of 527 is thus: he was a brilliant, hurt, and confused child in a teenager's body, thrust into a situation that the cruel world around him had crafted.

Ten Years Earlier

"Hey, new kid, I'm talking to you! Look at me!"

The seven year old being addressed chose not to. The strange device he held in his hand, supposedly called an 'MP3 Player', was much more interesting. This, and the fact that the seven year old was not quite ready to admit that, after only two days at this new school, someone was picking on him.

He turned up the volume on the track he was listening to, letting the music drone out this bully in front of him. It was an amazing gift; one that he'd devoted his constant attention to since his birthday only three days ago. Only when it was snatched from his hands did he pay attention to the kid that had taken it.

The kid, who was no older than seven himself, was ruddy-faced and mean-looking. He sneered at the device first, then at the seven year old on the ground before him. "What's this thing? It looks older than my parents!"

"Give it back," the seven year old said quietly, rising from the ground in an awkward manner. Some of the bully's friends slid into flanking position, just as mean-looking as their leader.

"Seriously, is this used to play music or something? Why can't you just get an audio input like the rest of us? Or is it that you're so poor you can't afford one?

"Give it back…please," the seven year old said again, this time remembering advice he'd been told the day before.

"_Remember_," his brother had told him, "_if someone takes away anything of yours, don't fight them. Ask for it, say 'please', and they'll give it__back. Trust me on this one, okay?_"

But, it didn't seem that way with this bully. He laughed along with his friends at the seven year old. They saw how pathetic this kid was, how he was of average height, but sickly pale and skinny. They took in his clothes, how they were old and patched, and they took in his slightly unclean appearance.

"What are you gonna do?" one of the bully's partners said, mockingly.

"Maybe we should take it for a while! Even this thing doesn't deserve an owner like you!" The bully suddenly turned around, pulled his right arm back, and shouted, "Hey, Jessie, catch!"

The MP3 Player flew above the heads of the curious children, towards the kid who was supposed to catch it. Instead, as he tried to reach out, it sailed past his grip and landed on the ground, where it broke into two with a scattering of pieces.

As a rule of cause and effect, almost every head on the playground turned towards the seven year old, who stood with a disbelieving expression on his face.

The bully, along with most of the children who saw what had happened, shrieked with laughter. "Oops!" the bully said, turning back to the seven year old, only to find the child staring at him. He blinked once.

The bully screamed in agony; his right arm was being ripped from its socket, and his friends gaped at him in confusion and horror. He progressed to writhing on the ground, thrashing wildly on the mulch. With his left arm, he pressed against his shoulder blade, willing for it to stop, but everyone within a few feet heard the sickening pop as the arm came undone.

The playground erupted into panic. The children ran in every direction, some sprinting back into the school building, and some vaulting over the concrete fence to the streets beyond. This left the bully to his situation, and he was whimpering in agony too painful to be expressed with screaming. He grabbed at the ground with his left arm, trying desperately to get away from the seven year old who was walking towards him. He knew that this kid had done this, somehow, and he was not finished.

"P-Please…" the bully whispered in a shaky sob. "Don't k-kill me…Please…I didn't m-mean it…"

But the seven year old walked past him. He suddenly broke into a run, sprinted towards the fence, climbed over, and disappeared from view.

With nothing left to do, the bully buried his face in the mulch and wept uncontrollably. It was several long minutes later that a group of teachers came running to his aid.

Present Time

After 527 was sent back to his cell, he sat. He sat for a few minutes, which turned into hours, which turned into a day, which turned into ten. He sat until the darkness that was his cell gave way to the darkness that was sleep. There really was no difference. Sometimes he slept for days, sometimes he stayed awake for days. The food came through the ceiling hatch and sat there along with 527. He contemplated eating it, figured it would only make him hungrier, and listened to the food gurgle as it dissolved into nothing. His mind produced a song he had heard years before, a hard rock song that had a driving beat, and he vividly heard it play out in his thoughts.

He replayed the song a dozen times, when, finally, the A.I. chimed in and said, "Prisoner 527. Today is December 27th, 2049. It has been ten days since your last inspection, and--"

"Bob," 527 interrupted rather irritably, "It's impolite to speak when I'm playing a song. I was just getting to the solo…"

"Irrelevant. And my name is not Bob. It is AIPC--"

"Yeah, yeah. What do you need?"

"Stand and walk to the door farthest down the hall."

The cell door opened, and once the brilliant light ebbed away ---

"What?"

Down the hall, the hall that had _exactly_ twenty doors, the hall that 527 had walked down for ten years, was something he had never seen before. Where a blank wall should have been, ending the hallway, was a gunmetal grey door. Not keeping his green eyes off of the new structure, 527 ignored the increasing pain in his head and staggered to his feet. He glanced back at his cell, automatically wanting to go back, but it had closed shut.

The new door hissed open like all the others, and 527 walked into a blackness that was quite possibly more dark than his cell. And normally, all the rooms that he had been in before echoed with every step or word, but the new room seemed to chop off his footsteps and the jingle from the belts of his straightjacket. It was a bit suffocating, and it did nothing to improve 527's migraine.

And through the darkness, a voice came, "Ten years is quite a while."

527 started as a male voice boomed all around him, seeming to fill the entire space he had just stepped into. It wasn't the monotonous A.I. either, and by the sound of him, 527 knew the voice belonged to a grown-up, but the first human presence in ten years only added to the suffocating feeling 527 felt, and his head pounded a little more violently.

"More like twenty, when all you can do is think, sit, and be exploited," the voice continued. "Do you know why you were imprisoned? Why you're here?"

527 closed his eyes exasperatedly; yet again it was time for a rhetorical question and a pointless conversation. "Because," he said, "I'm--"

"A freak?"

527's headache increased even more. He grimaced at the echo of "freak" carried by every pulse from his head. He had learned to deal with the pain, the constant, always present migraines, and even the times when it hurt to stand or even think, so he managed with only a soft grunt.

"Ah, forgive me," the voice chuckled. "I think the official term is 'chronic telepathic'. But, whatever you want to call it, you have to admit the fact that what you have is quite a gift."

"Uh…" 527 breathed. "You think this thing I have is a gift?"

"Well, more as a gift for us. If only…if only you would let us have it." It was obvious to see that he wasn't trying to befriend 527 in order to make him cooperate. "I don't know why you insist on being so stubborn. You honestly have no idea of the knowledge we could gain from your powers. The implementations created by all of it."

"Weapons…"

"…What did you say?"

527 straightened him up, ignoring the pain. "It would inevitably be used for killing and warfare. What I have, it's bad enough as it is. No…uhh… it's you who have no idea… how far from a gift this is…"

The next instant, 527 was brought to his knees by utterly blinding pain. A sharp, high-pitched ringing had enveloped his hearing; it seemed like needles were being stabbed into his brain. The darkness around him flashed with violent colors that assaulted his mind.

But then, it stopped. As quickly as it had come, it stopped. 527 inhaled a cold, rattling breath, and most of the pain subsided.

"_That_," the voice said, seemingly pleased, "is for every answer or statement that I don't seem to like. It's only at 10%, so please, play nice, won't you?"

527 winced.

"Do you remember my name at all?"

527 winced again. "No."

"Understandable. Seven years old, half-crazed at the time. Well, my name is Kester. And I would ask your name, but, alas; you don't seem to have one. Not in seventeen years…how sad."

Kester? 527 narrowed his eyes, and the same feeling of irksome displeasure (not hate) came to accompany his migraine.

"I'm guessing," Kester continued in his oily voice, "that you're wondering why you've never even seen this room?"

527 kept his mouth tightly shut.

"Well, honestly, it was the last room in your area that was built. This complex is amazing; easily a marvel of technological and scientific achievement. Every room, just as amazing and as advanced as the last. This room serves a purpose, just like all the others, though it's not for testing or for holding at all."

Suddenly, 527 was blinded momentarily as the room was brought out of oblivion. He kept his eyes firmly locked together, but knowing he would have to open them sometime, he tentatively opened his lids, seeing that the floor was black, and tiled with what appeared to be speakers. Looking around him, he saw that the entire room was comprised of speakers, wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Kester said with an air of reverence. Looking directly ahead of him, 527 saw a pane of square glass that was tinted to the blackness of the speakers. If Kester was anywhere, he was probably reclining sweetly behind the glass.

"This room serves as somewhat of a motivator. A place that bears witness to a soon-to-be ultimatum that I'm about to give you. Are you listening nice and well?"

527 stood there, hunched as usual, and didn't respond.

Kester wasn't deterred. "Good! Ah, at least you know how to pay attention. Let's start with a number, shall we? Three hundred-million, six hundred thousand, nine hundred and forty two. After ten long years, that's the amount shelled out for you and your experiments. This room, the other rooms, and the entire building was all for you.

"But what have we gained, or even learned from all this? From the moment you entered, I could tell that you would be more than a handful for a few automatons and an A.I. that is designed for only one purpose, no matter how state-of-the-art it seems. I consistently said and still say that we needed personnel on site for someone like you. You have been stubborn, unwilling, and unwieldy for ten years. You keep your mind behind a natural veil that we could never quite penetrate when you were being tested. Of course, it would have been smoother if you had eaten the food we gave you. I was surprised at how early on you detected the drug; it was supposed to be virtually undetectable."

"It was obvious that you were going to drug the food if you wanted me to cooperate."

"Indeed, but when the food failed--"

"You sent the drug in the form of vapor through the air vents, which I couldn't see, but that was the only other way to give it to me if the food failed," 527 said, a bit pleased with himself. "Straight injections were just a waste of time, even though that was tried later."

"Cleaver, yes," Kester said flatly. "After that, as you said, we tried straight-out injections. No matter what, you stayed away from the needles. If you had a cold, we told you this or that would make you better. 'No!' you said, so when that didn't work, we tried forcing the drug into you, which…ah. If only we could have seen the activity of your brain those times when you needed to use your powers. The human brain, whether you know it or not, is one of the most amazing things on earth. In each person, despite whatever they may do or say to the contrary, has a supercomputer in their head. The complexity knows no bounds, for you have the most intricate, adaptive, miniscule collective intellectual system you could ever ask for. A bomb goes off, a gun is fired, someone is gassed; death in essence is all the same, but at the same time of killing someone, you obliterate the supercomputer. You destroy an infinite number of opinions, theories, memories, interests, hobbies, vices, plans, inventions and god knows what else!

"I'm not above average. I'm simply a person entitled with an authority that serves under another authority. But, any idiot can look at the world and people around him and pick out what he thinks is wrong and right. Some people just stop and analyze the data more than others. But whatever they think about things, it's all their opinion, nothing more or less. So, who am I to say that imprisoning you is the right thing to do? My authority doesn't rule, I'm afraid. To test or not to test? To exploit or not to exploit? Imprison or set free?"

Clearly, warden Kester, the one who pulled the strings in 527's operation, wasn't as much of an idiot as he had made him out to be. Still, the feelings of displeasure ( again, not quite strong enough to be hatred) were not abashed by this knowledge.

527 exhaled silently. "It really didn't take much for my imprisonment."

"Indeed," Kester replied as if the matter was being discussed over dinner. "I know you've had plenty of time to think in the past decade, but think just a second longer, would you? How often do individuals gifted with this power come about? In the past hundred years, there have been thousands of tests in this field, but only a handful to test on. True people with true power of mind? That is something so incredibly special; governments grabble and squirm over each other to get it before anyone else. Even though you've been defiant in all accounts, we've still managed to get some results. Results, I think, that we could use."

"Everyone went crazy when they saw their chance to nab me, didn't they?"

"Right on the money. Granted, we had a file on you since your first years of living; antisocial, quiet, yet showing uncommon aspects of genius and ease of learning. The people who knew you in that life would no doubt confirm this. But, of course, they never knew your most interesting aspect of all: your abilities to manipulate objects with your mind. But what could we do except sit and watch? Abducting a child to experiment on him; not exactly the image we want to convey about ourselves. I--"

"No one would have missed me," 527 said bitterly. He instantly zoned in on how Kester had phrased his sentence. _That life _was best forgotten."You could have taken me any time."

"You're correct," Kester heartedly agreed, "but that was a risk we couldn't afford to take. So, only in the form of your little," (insert accident here), "did we get the chance that we wanted so badly."

527 winced as another wave of pain washed over his senses, and a flash rolled over him.

…..Accident?

….You're such a freak….

527 silently exhaled a shaky breath and shivered noticeably.

Kester watched his reaction. "Unpleasant for you? I'm sorry, but you seem to get my point. I didn't really have any say-so in your imprisonment. You came to me only because of my expertise as a high-level prison officer." 527 heard a bit of humor go into Kester's next words. "I had a bit of trouble believing that a seven year old could be imprisoned, let alone that he had psychic powers. It's simply the day and age we live in. Though, I was proven wrong a few days later. There you were at my desk, half-crazy, trembling, sometimes sending random objects flying into the air without even meaning to. At first, I thought of objecting to a full-blown imprisonment of a seven year old, but I quickly realized that a gift as rare as yours should be looked into thoroughly.

"So, here you are, ten years later. A little bit saner, and a little wiser. Still, you've cost us a very pretty penny, I'm afraid. That's why you've been introduced to the little device I'm rather fond of calling the Motivator."

"That device that that makes a ringing noise?"

"Oh, please, don't try to play it off as just a 'ringing' noise. That must sound like more like a screech to your ears, I'm sure. This device is called a TeleSonic Disruptor, and it directly stimulates your hearing receptors and inner ear cavity. Though I hate to compare, your sensitivity to high-pitched noises is much like a dog in this respect. Even at the highest level, a normal human being will only hear a rather loud and unpleasant ringing."

Wondering what a dog was, 527 warily asked, "What happens when it's used on a person like me?"

"Well, if it does what it is supposed to do, the highest level is guaranteed to be lethal within a minute."

527 took in a breath that was suddenly fraught with anxiety. The placid expression he always wore was replaced by a childlike fear. It was an emotion he hadn't felt in years, and the fear itself frightened him. "You wouldn't do that, would you?"

There was slight pause from Kester, as if 527's sudden change in attitude took him by surprise. This was probably the case; even though Kester probably had monitored him for most of his imprisonment, 527 had kept his emotions closely in check. After his pause, Kester replied, "You've had plenty of time to concede with us. The A.I. administered to you has asked you countless times whether you would stop being so stubborn."

"Bob never threatened to kill me like you're doing. He always told me that he that hurting me in the slightest would be regrettable…I always thought that if I resisted for too long, you'd let me go…"

If Kester found this pitiful, he didn't show it. He scoffed and said, "You are indeed smart, 527, but that's one of the most foolish things I've ever heard from you. Let you go, just like that? No, not after all the time and money invested into you.

"Besides that, you were a menace to those around you when you were free. You were simply too dangerous and volatile to grow up in a world that didn't understand or accept what you were. Quite frankly, I don't see how you got on to even the age of seven. If it wasn't us, it would have been someone else who would've caught you. If it wasn't that incident, it would've been another time in your life. Answer this question truthfully, 527: would you really even _want _to be set free into that world? Would you really endure the ridicule and humiliation that would surely accompany your freedom?"

527 didn't answer. He sat there, cross-legged, starring around the room that he'd walked into.

It was all true. Kester had spoken what he'd felt for a long time. There was always the remorse and regret of his time before the prison, but that only strengthened 527's resolve. He promised himself that, once he got out, he would make up for what he'd done. He had always entertained the notion that he could start new when he was released, and by that point possibly be in control of his condition. The now-obvious fact reared made itself real in 527's mind. If he ever did get out of there, people would still avoid him, hate him, even. It would only turn out to be another prison to engulf him.

527 continued to glance around the room. Every speaker seemed to glare at him, restless at a chance to end his indomitable mindset. The room pounded to the rhythm of his headache, each pulse seeming to contract the room inch by inch. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the rising feeling of hopelessness in his stomach.

It was a few tense moments later that he realized Kester was shouting, "STOP, STOP NOW!"

527 opened his eyes and looked to the window pane set amongst the speakers. It now had a massive, horizontal crack running from end to end.

Kester was obviously displeased that 527 had managed to almost bust his protection, for he spoke in a tense voice, "Unless you wish for me to crank the machine all the way up, I suggest you calm yourself down, 527. I'm not going to use the Disruptor unless I really have to, and you destroying even _more _equipment is good enough."

527 sheepishly looked down at the floor, and said nothing.

He heard Kester quietly clear his throat. "As I mentioned earlier, I'm to present you with an offer, though it's rather like an ultimatum. Listen to me well, 527." 527 raised his head to gaze at the pane of glass, and Kester continued. "Your time here has not been wasted totally, for we've learned a thing or two in the past ten years. But, 'a thing or two' is not enough to justify over $3.5 million spent for a stubborn cause. As a result, you are presented with two options. The first one is the more logical of the two; cooperate with us, and subject to tests that are completely harmless in nature, potentially giving us huge leaps in technological advancement, and possibly letting us develop ways to help you with your condition. Or," Kester began in a dark tone, "you can continue to be stubborn and illogical. In which case, we have no choice but to power the Disruptor to 70%. This is very close to a lethal amount, but it won't kill you. Instead, it will make you writhe in pain, make you scream for it to stop, make you beg for death for days on end. But it will never stop. You will never be able to ignore it, you will never be able to sleep through it, and you will never be able to escape it. It will continue long after you've submitted to our hand, and it will continue long after you've totally lost your sense of reality. We will _only _turn it off when we've felt we've made a point, and that could take a _very _long time…"

How long 527 stared at the pane of glass, he couldn't tell. Until now, he'd been complacent to laugh at Bob and his machines as they tried to test him, taking satisfaction that he was making life difficult for them. They, after all, wouldn't hurt him no matter how many sensors or automatons he destroyed. They would swiftly be replaced in no time, and 527 would repeat the cycle every now and then.

Now, however, he faced a position he didn't think possible only half an hour ago. 527 realized, for absolutely the first time in his life, he didn't want to die. But literally _begging_ for death was a state that made him shudder with fear. Really, what choice did he, 527, have in the matter?

"527," Kester addressed him, his voice echoing around the room, "what is your decision? Will you comply, or will you suffer for the sake of your foolish pride?"

527 looked helplessly into the cracked window, the child that was very much a part of him fully exposed. He cried silently, automatically trying to wipe away the tears, but the jacket prevented even this simple action, and his arms had slipped into atrophy a long time ago. He lowered his head, tears falling onto his tattered jeans. He felt his fear clearly manifested, and yet another emotion he hadn't felt in years came to light: a sad wisp of defeat. "I'll…I'll do it…I'll give in," he sobbed. "Just…please…don't turn on that machine…"

527 was too broken down to notice a slight softness in Kester's voice. "A wise decision…Return to your cell, 527. We will give you new instructions upon that time."

527 sniffled slightly, and got to his feet with a shaky effort. He shuffled to his cell, whereupon the darkness swallowed him up for the thousandth time. 527 knelt to the floor, curled up on his side, and broke down once more. He had never been more afraid of the cold, dark space that was his cell. Not even the one place that was his and his alone could comfort him now.

527 cried for a solid hour until he finally drifted into a dream-filled sleep.

Ten Years Ago

He had run two miles from the school without stopping, and finally rested up against an abandoned building in the darkness of an alley. Somebody must have seen him running away; cars had passed him all the way there. Besides, the kids at the school were probably telling the teachers he had done it. How, they didn't know, but they were right, of course. The new boy that kept to himself and spoke to no one had snapped, just like his MP3 Player, and had ripped that poor child's arm off.

There was no denying it; he was in what the caretaker of the orphanage called 'deep shit'. He shook violently, shivering, though the day was warm. His head pounded and his vision blurred. He had almost _killed _that kid…Even though the bully was being mean, he didn't deserve to have his arm ripped out…The child sat there for many minutes, wishing two things. Firstly, he wished his brother wouldn't have given him that MP3 Player in the first place. Such an odd device was only going to draw attention to himself, giving the children a reason to mark him as an easy target. He hadn't even wanted a gift! Secondly, he wished that he wasn't such an outcast, that he could at least be a bit more social like his brother. His brother had always been amiable and, while he didn't make friends everywhere he went, he was a sight more popular than the child. If only a small portion of that air of likeability were to transfer over, maybe then he would actually make friends instead of _enemies. _He had been (foolishly, he realized) telling himself on his first trip over to school that he'd actively try to engage in conversation. But with nothing to relate to, he simply closed himself from everyone around him. When asked by his brother how his first day went, the child naturally didn't tell him the truth.

The darkness of the ally was calming to his nerves. The child gradually took in normal breaths, and, as a car glided past, he set off for the orphanage. It was only a few hundred feet away, and it was for this reason that the child walked to school. It was a mid-20th century building with high windows and three floors; an ugly, square building compared to the modern office buildings that surrounded it. Perhaps it was because of the novelty of being such an old building, but after nearly one hundred years, Saint Monica's Orphanage was still in business. Saint Monica was long dead, of course, but the spirit of hospitality was kept alive by a string of people caring enough to look after a few dozen children.

Both the child and his brother had lived there for as long as they could remember, but as the seven year old walked into the shadow of the building, he wondered if that would be the case for much longer. He approached the steps and paused, contemplating if they already knew. Even though it had happened little over an hour ago, the kid was probably unconscious, and the adults would have a hard time believing a child had mutilated another by merely blinking. As for his brother…well, he'd find out soon enough.

The child entered the building as quietly as he could, but soon realized it was useless to try and sneak in. A maid strolled by just as he was closing the door. She was a portly sort of woman, with a sunken face that showed she'd been taking care of rambunctious kids for quite some time, but the child knew she was kind beyond reason.

"Brother Two," exclaimed the maid, " what are you doing back here so early? Doesn't school end at three? It's not even noon!"

The child was used to telling lies, so he told her with a convincing smile, "We had an early release because of it being Friday."

The maid accepted this. "Alright , dear. Would you like something to eat? You look like you're about to collapse."

"No thank you, ma'am. I ran here,"(Which was true) "so I could get here before my brother. I'll just wait for him upstairs, if that's alright…"

"Not at all, dear. Let me know if you need anything. Brother One should be home in a few hours."

See, here's the thing. The brother and child (Brother One and Two, respectively) arrived on a winter's evening at the steps of the orphanage. There was no identification whatsoever, no name, no birth certificate, for any of them, so you can probably realize there was some confusion on the part of the maids and the caretaker. Their reasoning was sound, however; since Brother One was older by a year or so, he was named…Brother One. The child, naturally, was named Brother Two. The maids all agreed it wasn't their place to name two children who weren't theirs to begin with, and, as it turned out, Brother One and Two were happy with their names. They were nearly identical growing up; the same skinny frame, the same facial features, but the eyes were of a different color. The younger brother had pine green eyes, while the older brother had forget-me-not blue eyes. Although there was some official investigation as to whom their mother was, no results came to light. It was assumed that she was dirt poor, and with no food for herself, let alone two children, she gave her two sons to the orphanage. And somehow, in those six years, the child and his brother had kept secret his telekinetic powers from everyone around them.

In any case, the maid hurried to the other end of the building to tend to something important, and the child (We might call him 'Brother Two' later, if we have to) ran up the flight of stairs and into his room, slamming the door harder than he'd intended. His bed was closest to the window, and he plopped onto it with an unappreciative groan from the mattress. He took in the homely smell of the bed sheets, the wooden floor that creaked in countless places, and the old-fashioned lights on the ceiling that were illuminated by halogen bulbs.. The sunlight streamed through the single window onto his bed, making the dust that floated into the frame of light a beautiful golden color. His room seemed to be the only place that wasn't foreign to him; it was a place of refuge in times when he needed it the most. This room comforted him, welcomed him to let himself go, and bravely dare for the world to try and harm him. but a debilitating notion then spread through his brain.

Would this room even be his by the end of the day?

Perhaps he lay there on the bed for only a minute, but this was not the position he was in when Brother One came home. He arrived two hours later, stunned to see his younger brother sitting on the edge of their bed, levitating a gleaming kitchen knife in the air.

That's where things got _really _bad.

Present Time

It turned out that 527 slept for the better part of three days, not moving once from his original position on the floor. The food was dumped on the floor as usual, and it dissolved as usual; five times this happened, but 527 slept on. He had the most unusual dream: he was a kid again, anxiously sitting in his seat at school. The classroom was draped in an obscene white atmosphere, as if the ceiling lights were being overloaded in an effort to blind him. Where the other children were supposed to be, there sat many different machines and automatons, all whirring, clicking, and buzzing furiously.

The classroom door flung open, and in wheeled the teacher. It turned out to be Bob, the A.I. He was manifested by a TV perched upon a cart, the screen showing a pixilated face that was rather irritated-looking. Bob telepathically wrote his name on the board with a piece of chalk: AIPCS-7E44Y-01. He swiveled around to face the class and droned, "Greetings, class. I am your teacher, and my name is not Bob. Today's lesson is the art of submission. You, Mr. 527, what can you tell us about this topic?"

The machines had all turned to face him, and the room was drowned out by many menacing whirls and buzzes. 527 sat in his seat, too shocked to answer. What did he know? He was just a kid, he didn't even know what 'submission' meant!

Mr. AIPCS-7E44Y-01tutted disdainfully, but it sounded like a snap more than anything. "That is a pity, I was hoping you'd know it right away…If only we could use your mind. Think of the possibilities, 527."

Bob had turned into Kester, and the machines had transformed into many faceless scientists and technicians, all shaking their heads in disappointment. Kester was faceless as well, talking without a mouth, scrutinizing him with unseen eyes. "A new lesson is in order, I suppose. Surely you'll know this one. Take a small child and his brother. Give the younger brother telepathic powers, and make the other brother care for him night and day. Suppose this younger brother had an accident, ran home, and started levitating the things he wasn't supposed to; _dangerous _things, things that would _hurt_ somebody. Add his older brother into the mix, and what do you get, 527?"

527 sat there, his eyes darting from faceless scientist to faceless scientist, to his desk, and back to Kester. Only, where Kester was supposed to be standing, he was now replaced with someone else. This new form wasn't faceless; it was a child of his age, and he looked hauntingly like 527, but with eyes of blue. he knew who this person was right from the start.

527's brother smirked at him. "You don't know? I thought you, of all people, would remember…_freak._"

The scientists and technicians were replaced by school children. They all echoed his brother with a scream of, "FREAK!"

527 awoke with a scream of his own, and it rebounded off the walls of his cell. He drew in a rattling breath and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision of the many colored dots occupying his vision. As if his scream was a cue, a dosage of food came flying out from the ceiling, landing with a sticky plop on the concrete floor. He realized just how _hungry_ he truly was, and ate it with an almost ravenous lust. Starving as he was, he thought the food tasted exceptionally better than he'd remembered. After he'd had his fill, he rolled onto his back, hearing what was left of the food dissolve, as usual.

527 took in the events that seemed to have happened only hours ago. He had gone into a room he'd never seen before in his long time here, been subjected to a small dosage of that terrifying machine, and broken down in front of warden Kester. After the prospect of suffering endlessly to that whine that slowly ripped his brain apart, he'd agreed, after ten years of imprisonment, to cooperate with whatever tests they thought he should have. Kester had given him an illusion of choice in the matter; even if he chose not to yield, he'd be subjected to torture until he did.

It made 527 shiver to realize how scared he'd been. In all the time of his imprisonment, death was simply an idea that he'd seriously considered toying with during the start of his confinement. It had ultimately given way to a desire of causing as many setbacks as possible. Now that he knew they'd been much more determined than he'd reckoned, the fire had been stomped out. After so long without feeling most of the normal emotion that we humans feel on a daily basis, Kester had brought on a flood of feeling to his prisoner, feelings that belonged to a child more than anything.

In yet another childish notion, he suddenly pitied the monotonous A.I. he'd named Bob; 527 had been nothing but trouble since he'd been imprisoned. Granted, it was for the sole fact that he'd _been _imprisoned, but Bob was here simply to do his job, and 527 had frequently laughed in his metaphorical face. Even though he was a machine, that wasn't to say he couldn't experience anger or frustration. After all, before his imprisonment, 527 had heard of machines being made that could react accordingly to human interaction. Bob had once told 527 this was the case, though if it were true, the A.I. had a remarkable tolerance for a prisoner's bullshit. 527 thought an apology was an order. He knew the A.I. could hear him while he was in his cell, and he tentatively called, "AIPCS-7E44Y-01?"

"Prisoner 527," the A.I. chimed in. If a machine could feel surprise, Bob would have felt it at this moment. 527 had _never _called him by his proper name. "It is duly noted that you have addressed me by my proper identification. State your mind."

527 sighed, and said, "I just want to say that I'm sorry for my behavior these past few years."

Bob paused for two seconds as he processed this. His core logic had slightly tipped off balance. As his algorithms corrected themselves, he replied, "Your statement is illogical. Please explain."

527 sighed. "I've been an ass since the day I got here. You've never talked back to me, and only the machines that were involved in the testing ever threatened me. I'm sorry for the way I've acted all these years…"

"My job is assist in the testing of prisoner 527, and I've done this job to the best of my ability. Section 8C, final directory: whether the prisoner complies or not, is not up to the AIPCS to pass judgment."

"I know, Bob, but that doesn't give me the right to act so inconsiderate. Can you forgive me?"

This was _completely _illogical. Bob's algorithms were just about to be corrected, but they suddenly fell into total disarray at 527's apology. His core logic was fighting with itself; a young boy imprisoned does not ask for forgiveness from a machine assigned to test on him. "Illogical s-statement," Bob sputtered. Unbeknownst to 527, somewhere deep inside the structure, Bob's mainframe was undergoing much more stress than it was intended to, offset by a lone revelation.

"Bob?," 527 questioned, realizing he might have just made a mistake. "Are you alright? Did I say something wrong?"

"Fatal error. E-error. AIPCS experiencing total malfunction. Suggested action: transfer thought and reasoning process to backup core number one until a solution has been found. Time until cycle is complete: eight hours."

Bob had initiated a protocol shutdown of his entire system, and this left 527 in a very confused state. What had he done?

"Bob?" he called.

Bob didn't respond.

527 counted his time since Bob had announced he'd crashed. It was five hours, 33 minutes, and 27 seconds when he was assaulted by a new voice coming from the intercom.

"Prisoner 527, stand and walk to the farthest door on the right."

527 had never heard this voice before. Though he'd been waiting for someone to talk to since Bob went boom, and though he was in no position to judge, he thought that this was one of the most stuck up voices he'd ever heard. It was male and it was human, that much was obvious, but it sounded both dignified and condescending; every word was spoken with a maintained sneer. It wasn't quite as oily as Kester's voice, but 527 had a feeling he'd dislike this person even more. He asked with a guarded tone, "Who the hell are you? What happened to Bob?"

"Your pet name is very cute," the voice managed to say in even more of a sneer, "but that is not it's proper identification. I'm no one important, either. You are to get your smart ass out of your cell and into the interrogation room, _now_."

The cell door snapped open, blinding 527, who forgot to close his eyes. Though he didn't like where this was going, he staggered to his feet, bracing for the headache that was sure to come.

527 ambled down the hallway, noticing the new door was still at the end of the hall, unchanged from his trip down the hall. Glad that it wasn't the room he had to go into, 527 turned to his right as the door hissed open, revealing the blinding room 527 detested. As he expected, his headache churned up in protest of the light, though 527 didn't even bother to look at the ceiling; it made his eyes water madly, but he stared straight ahead into the white oblivion.

"You're on a roll, 527," the voice drawled, making clear that it wasn't impressed. "First you force us to construct a multimillion dollar machine that had its first test run on you, then, not a week after, you inadvertently break a multi_billion _dollar A.I. You just love to stir shit up, don't you?"

Perhaps the voice expected 527 to grin, but he didn't. "It was never my intention to make Bob shut down, or whatever he did. Who are you?"

"Like I said, I'm no one important. Your warden Kester wasn't available to tend to this _very _annoying setback, so I've been administered to ask you a simple question: exactly _how _did you manage to crash a smart A.I.?"

At this, 527 did actually grin. "I actually felt sorry for Bob, you know? He's had to put up with my attitude for years, and I felt that if I said I was sorry, he'd forgive me. It didn't turn out as I had hoped, though…"

" I hate to break your heart, 527. Although 'Bob', as you call him, is of the smart variety, he honestly doesn't give a flying fuck whether you cooperate or not."

527 blinked rapidly. "But he _told _me he recognized human emotion and knew how to categorize it…"

"Just because he recognizes human emotion doesn't mean he can _feel _it. You know its sole purpose: to monitor and control the mentally unstable, chronic telepathic designated as prisoner 527."

"I know for a fact that I'm not mentally unstable," 527 stated. He tried to deliver this with as much confidence as possible.

The voice scoffed, and said, in the nastiest voice yet, "You call what you did to your brother all those years ago mental 'sanity'?"

At this, 527 lowered his eyes. "That was an accident. I didn't mean to do that to him."

It seemed as if the voice was enjoying this in some way. "I've always thought that children and sharp objects don't mix. Your little 'accident' caused quite a stir, as I remember. All the maids at sweet ol' Saint Monica's thought it could've never happened. They said you were a well-mannered child, and they never even expected something like _that_ to happen. You know, I'll bet you've been wondering to yourself all these years, 'Whatever happened to him? Whatever happened to the brother that I maimed?' Would you like for me to tell you, so you might sleep better on your concrete pillow?"

527 didn't answer in time. As he stood there, slightly hunched over in his natural posture, he heard an indistinct voice in the background, and heard the voice shout in surprise, "Who the FUCK are you?!"


End file.
